Dorothy Dixon and the Mystery Plane

“Why, my dear, I’m quite as surprised as you are,” gurgled Mrs. Walters. “Isn’t this rain disgusting? You looked perfectly lovely Dorothy – and you did splendidly, splendidly, my dear. I thought I’d die when your rope of pearls broke and you went hunting for them – a perfect scream, my dear – the funniest thing in the show!”

“Those were Betty Mayo’s pearls,” said Dorothy. “I wasn’t in that act. You say Terry left the house in plenty of time, and he expected to drive straight down here?”

Mrs. Walters had said nothing of the kind, but Dorothy had known the lady for years, and had long ago devised a method of securing information from her.

“He didn’t even wait for dessert, my dear. He probably went to the movies or remembered some other date. Boys are like that!”

“Terry isn’t.” His father spoke up. “He must have been going to pick someone up and give them a lift down here – then blew a shoe or something. Still, I don’t like it. I hope the boy hasn’t met with an accident.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Reggie! You make me feel positively faint. I know he has gone to the pictures.” Mrs. Walters was nervously emphatic. “Don’t be so silly, dear – I know he has.”

“You know nothing of the kind,” declared her husband.

“But, Reggie dear – ”

Dorothy hurriedly excused herself and went back stage.

But by the time the final curtain was rung down, no Terry had appeared. Dorothy was really worried. Betty was giving a party to a number of the cast at her house in White Oak Shade, but despite protests, Dorothy made her regrets and went to look for her father.

“I think I’ll beat it for home, Dad,” she announced, buttonholing him near the door.

“I’ll be along in a few minutes, darling. I certainly am more than extra proud of you tonight. I never realized what an actress you are. But you look troubled – anything the matter?”

“I’m worried about Terry. I know he wouldn’t deliberately put us all in this hole. He’s not that kind.”

“Probably had a break-down,” consoled her father. “Excuse me, dear, I want to speak to the Joneses over there.”

Dorothy drove a six-cylinder coupe whose body had seen better days, though she claimed for its engine that the world had not seen its equal. With her windiper working furiously, she came cautiously along Valley Road, her big headlamps staring whitely ahead. The rain was pelting down now, and since she must have a window open, and that window was on the weather side, one arm and part of the shoulder of her thin slicker were soon black and shining.

“Something he couldn’t help – that’s what made Terry let us down,” said her subconscious mind, and she wondered how any of the cast could have expressed contrary opinions. She was glad she had refused Betty’s invitation. She liked Terry and was deeply concerned about him. He wasn’t the sort to default unless something unforeseen and unusual occurred. Mrs. Walters said he had been full of the show at dinner and had spoken about getting to the Guild House early. Something had come up, that was certain. And that something, after he had started for Silvermine in his car. The more she thought about it, the more mysterious it seemed. She would phone the Walters again as soon as she reached home. Maybe he would be back by that time.

The car skidded round the turn into the Ridge Road that ran past the Dixon place. A mile farther on, Dorothy decided it would be well for her to keep her mind on the road ahead. A few minutes before, a lumbering truck had almost driven her into the ditch, and now, with a mile to go, she saw ahead of her three red lights. She slowed her engine until she came within a dozen yards of them.

They were red lamps, placed in a line across the road, and if they meant anything, it was that the road was under repair and closed. Yet she had passed the truck going at full speed just beyond the corner. From its lights, she was sure it had come along this stretch of road.

She peered through the open window and saw on her left a dilapidated stone fence, the top of which was hidden under a blanket of wild honeysuckle. She saw by her headlights a gap where once she knew a five-barred gate had blocked the way to the open field. All this she took in at a glance, for Dorothy knew exactly where she was. Then she turned again to her scrutiny of the road and the three red lamps.

“Well!” said Dorothy to herself. She switched out all the lights of the car, and taking something from her pocket, she opened the door quietly and stepped into the rain. She stood there for a while, listening.

There was no sound except the swish and patter of the storm. Keeping to the centre of the road she advanced slowly toward the red lights, picked up the middle one and examined it. The lantern was old – the red had been painted on the glass. The second lantern was newer, but of entirely different pattern. Here also, the glass pane had been covered by some red, transparent paint. And this was the case with the third lamp.

Dorothy threw the middle light into the ditch and found satisfaction in hearing the crash of glass. Then she came back to her car, got inside, slammed the door and put her foot down on the starter. The motor whined but the engine did not move. The car was hot and never before had it failed. Again she tried, but without success.

“This looks suspicious,” she muttered to herself.

She sprang out into the rain again and walked to the back to examine her gasoline tank. There was no need, for the indicator said, “Empty.”

“I’ll say suspicious!” she muttered again, angrily, as she stared down at the cause of her plight.

She had filled up just before dinner, but notwithstanding that fact, here was a trustworthy indicator pointing grimly to “E”; and when she tapped the tank, it gave forth a hollow sound in confirmation.

Dorothy sniffed: the air reeked with fumes. Flashing her pocket light on the ground she saw a metal cap and picked it up. Then she understood what had happened. The roadway, under her light, gleamed with opalescent streaks. Someone had taken out the cap and emptied her tank while she was examining the red lamps!

She refastened the cap, which was airproof, waterproof, and foolproof, and which could only have been turned by the aid of a spanner – she had heard no chink of metal against metal. She did not carry reserve fuel, but home was not more than a mile down the road, round the turn. And she knew there was a path from the gap in the stone wall, across the field and through a belt of woods that would halve the distance.

She sent her flashlight in the direction of the open gateway. One of the posts was broken and the rotting structure leaned drunkenly against a lilac bush. In the shadow behind the bush, she was certain that a dark form moved.

Dorothy lingered no longer, but switching off her light, she turned on her heel and raced up the road.

Chapter III

WHERE’S TERRY?

Behind her, Dorothy heard a shout, and that shout lent wings to her feet. Scared as she was, she grinned. For she was probably doing the only thing her would-be assailants had not counted on. She was running away from the red lights and home, sprinting down the road the way she had come. Overhead, tall elms met in an archway, and from the darkness at her back came the quick patter of footsteps. Suddenly they stopped.

Dorothy gave a sigh of joyous relief, for around the bend in the road she saw the double gleam of headlights, shining through the wet. Stopping short in the middle of the road, she switched on her flashlight again and waved it frantically from side to side.

“Daddy!” she cried as the big car drew up. “I was sure you weren’t far away. Gee! but I was glad to see your lights.”

Mr. Dixon snapped open the door and Dorothy slipped in beside him.

“Why, what are you doing out here? Have a breakdown?”

“H-holdup,” she panted. “My car’s down the road. Step on it, Dad – maybe we can catch them.”

“An ounce of discretion is sometimes worth forty pounds of valor,” he began, throwing in the clutch.

Dorothy cut him short. “Look!” she cried excitedly, and for all Mr. Dixon’s cautious announcement, the car jumped forward with a jerk. “See, Daddy! There’s my tail light! They’ve turned it on again. And the red lights have disappeared.”

“What red lights?”

“Tell you in a minute. Better slow down. My car’s out of gas. I’ve got a piece of hose in the rumble. We can siphon enough from your tank into mine to get me home.”

Mr. Dixon brought his car to a stop directly behind Dorothy’s coupe.

“Before we do anything, I want to hear exactly what happened, dear. You scared your fond parent out of a year’s growth when I caught sight of you waving that light in the middle of the road!”

“Poor old Daddy.” She threw an arm about his neck. “You weren’t half as frightened as I was. Those men were pelting down the road behind me and – ”

Her father broke in. “Well, they seem to have disappeared now. Let me hear the beginning.”

In a few short sentences, Dorothy told him.

“So you see,” she ended. “There’s nothing more for us to do about it, I guess, except to put some gas in my tank, and go home.”

“Wait a minute. Hand over that flash, please.” He opened the door and with an agility surprising in so large a man, sprang into the wet road and ran toward the gap in the wall.

As he ran, Dorothy saw a light flash in his hand. Then he went out of sight behind the wall but she could still see the gleam through the bushes. Presently he came back to where she was standing beside the car.